The manifold beauties of the Cathedral and Baptistery need norecapitulation from me；though in this case，as in a hundred others，Ifind it difficult tO separate my own delight in recalling them，from yourweariness in having them recalled．There is a picture of St．Agnes，byAndrea del Sarto，in the former，and there are a variety of rich columns inthe latter，that tempt me s~ongly． It is，I hope，no breach of my resolution not to be tempted intoelaborate descriptions，to remember the Campo Santo；where grass—grown graves are dug in earth brought more than six hundred years ago，from the Holy Land；and where there are，surrounding them，such cloisters，with such playing lights and shadows falling through their delicate tracery on the stone pavement，as surely the dullest memory could never forget．On the walls of this solemn and lovely place，are ancient frescoes，very much obliterated and decayed，but very curious．As usually happens in almost any collection of paintings，of any sort，in Italy，where there are many heads，there is，irl one of them，a striking accidental likeness of Napoleon．At one time，I used to please my fancy with the speculation whether these old painters，at their work，had a foreboding knowledge of the man who would one day arise to wreak such destruction upon art：whose soldiers would make targets of great pictures，and stable their horses among triumphs of architecture．But the same Corsican face is SO plentiful in some parts of Italy at this day，that a more commonplace solution of the coincidence is unavoidable．
If Pisa be the seventh wonder of the world in right of its Tower．it may claim to be，at least，the second or third in right of its beggars．They waylay the unhappy visitor at every turn，escort him to every door he enters at，and lie in wait for him，with strong reinforcements．at every door by which they know he must come out．The grating of the portal on its hinges is the signal for a general shout，and the moment he appears，he is hemmed in，and fallen on，by heaps of rags and personal distortions．The beggars seem to embody all the trade and enterprise of Pisa．Nothing else is stirring，but warm air．Going through the streets，the fronts of the sleepy houses look like backs．They are all SO still and quiet，and unlike houses with people in them，that the greater part of the city has the appearance of a city at daybreak，or during a general siesta of the population．Or it is yet more like those backgrounds of houses in common prints，or old engravings，where windows and doors are squarely indicated，and one figure(a beggar of course)is seen walking off by itselfinto illimitable perspective．
Not SO Leghorn(made illustrious by SMOLLETT’S grave)，whichis a thriving，business like，matter—of-fact place，where idleness isshouldered out of the way by commerce．The regulations observed there，in reference to trade and merchants，are very liberal and flee；and thetown，of course，benefits by them．Leghorn had a bad name in connectionwith stabbers，and with some justice it must be allowed；for，not manyyears ago，there was an assassination club there，the members of whichbore no ill-will to anybody in particular，but stabbed people(quitestrangers to them)in the streets at night，for the pleasure and excitementof the recreation．I think the president of this amiable society was ashoemaker．He was taken，however，and the club was broken up．It would，probably，have disappeared in the natural course of events，before therailroad between Leghorn and Pisa，which is a good one，and has alreadybegun to astonish Italy with a precedent of punctuality，order，plaindealing，and improvement--the most dangerous and heretical astonisherOf a11．There must have been a slight sensation，as of ea~hquake，surely，in the Vatican，when the first Italian railroad was thrown open． Returning tO Pisa，and hiring a good—tempered Vettur i no，and hisfour horses，to take US no to Rome，we traveled through pleasant Tuscanvillages and cheerful scenery all day．The roadside crosses in this partof Italy are numerous and curious．There is seldom a figure on the cross，though there is sometimes a face；but they are remarkable for being garnished with little models in wood，of every possible object that can beconnected with the Saviour’S death．The cock that crowed when Peterhad denied his Master thrice，is usually per’ched on the tip—top；and anornithological phenomenon he generally is．Under him，is the inscription．Then，hung on to the cross—beam，are the spear，the reed with the sponge of vinegar and water at the end，the reed with the sponge of vinegar and water at the end，the coat without seam for which the soldiers cast lots，the dice-box with which they threw for it，the hammer that drove in the nails，the pincers that pulled them out，the ladder which was set against the cross，the crown of thoms，the instrument of flagellation，the lantern with which Mary went to the tomb(I suppose)，and the sword with which Peter smote the servant of the high priest，--a perfect toy—shop of little objects，repeated at every four of five miles，all along the highway．
On the evening of the second day from Pisa，we reached the beautiful old city of Siena．There was what they called a Carnival，in progress；but，as its secret lay in a score or two of melancholy people walking up and down the principal street in common toy-shop masks，and being more melancholy，if possible，than the same sort of people in England，I say no more of it．We went off,betimes next morning，to see the Cathedral，which is wonderfully picturesque inside and out．especially the latter—also the market—place，or great Piazza，which is a large square，with a great broken——nosed fountain in it：some quaint Gothic houses：and a high square brick tower；outside the top of which—a curious feature in such views in Italy—hangs an enormous bell．It is like a bit of Venice，without the water．There are some curious old Palazzi in the town，which is very ancient；and without having(for me)the interest of Verona，or Genoa，it is very dreamy and fantastic，and most interesting．